Page 30 of Unfinished Noise

And then it happened, that first emotional peak. A warm rush slid through Spencer’s chest, loosening everything that had been wound too tight. It wasn’t loud or explosive; it was the quiet kind of high, the kind that came from the inside out, the kind that felt like something finally clicking back into place.

When the set finally ended, the crowd roared so loud Spencer felt it in his bones. They walked offstage, sweaty and buzzing, and the club staff guided them through the crowd toward the bar.

People reached out with hands, phones, posters, and shirts.

“Spencer! Over here!”

“Can I get a picture?”

“You guys killed it tonight!”

“Sign this? Please?”

Spencer stopped every few steps, smiling for photos, signing shirts, and letting fans hug him. He loved the warmth, the excitement, and the way people looked at him like he mattered.

A girl with glitter dusted across her cheeks grabbed his hand, eyes shining like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “I was at your Missoula show about six years ago. You opened with Cold Highway, and I swear I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.”

Spencer’s chest tightened, warm and sharp. “That was a good night,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Thanks for coming back for us.”

She nodded hard, almost emotional. “I never stopped hoping you’d play again.”

Before Spencer could say more, another fan pushed forward with a worn poster, its edges creased and corners taped. “Man, I’ve had this on my wall since high school. You remember the Reno show? You blew out the speakers during Break the Line.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Tonight… you sounded even stronger.”

Spencer let out a breathy laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. “Reno was chaos,” he said, signing the poster. “Glad we’re still giving you something worth keeping.”

Billy leaned in, whispering, “They’re eating us alive.”

“Good,” Spencer said. “Let ’em.”

They finally reached the bar, sliding onto stools while the bartender lined up drinks for them—cold beers, a couple of shots, something fruity for Billy that he pretended not to like.

Nathan clinked his bottle against Spencer’s. “To the comeback.”

Spencer clinked back. “To not screwing it up.”

They drank, the noise of the club wrapping around them like a warm blanket. Spencer felt the adrenaline still humming under his skin, felt the satisfaction settling deep and steady.

And then the second high hit him, which differed from the first. The energy from the crowd lingered like a charge under his skin, bright and addictive. Their cheers, their voices, the way they reached for him… it lifted him higher than any spotlight ever could. It was the high that came from being seen, wanted, and loved.

This was the dream. People loving them. Music hitting right. The band moving like a single heartbeat. But even with all of it, Spencer’s hand drifted toward his pocket, brushing his phone.

Jamie still hadn’t answered.

And that quiet space where Jamie’s reply should’ve been tugged at him harder than he wanted to admit.

Chapter Twelve

Jamie

As soon as Spencer left the room, the door clicking shut behind him, Jamie let his paintbrush fall into the jar of cloudy water. The canvas of Saddle Creek Ranch sat half-finished—warm Montana sky, the barn roof he’d been shading, the fence line he missed more than he wanted to admit. But all of that faded when he looked over at Alfie.

Alfie sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward as if he was trying to make himself smaller. Jamie’s teddy bear wasn’t clutched dramatically, but it was pressed against Alfie’s chest with his chin resting on its head the way he did when he was overwhelmed, rocking it slightly without realizing. His foot tapped against the carpet in a jittery, uneven rhythm, the kind he only had when he was close to breaking.

A hard swallow caught halfway. “Tell me now.”

Alfie didn’t even try to pull himself together. His breath hitched first—sharp, shaky—and then his face crumpled. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, missing half the tears. “I want to go back home,” he said, voice thin and frayed. “Daddy Nathan told me he’s not going to bring me anymore if I don’t behave.”

He wasn’t crying in neat little lines down his cheeks. His nose was red, his eyes blotchy, and he kept blinking too fast, as if he were trying to hold himself together and failing. His fingers dug into the teddy’s fur, twisting it, gripping it, letting go, gripping again as if he didn’t know what else to hold on to.